I am unsure of how many hours have passed. Perhaps it's already been a day; perhaps it's been two.

I remain curled on my side on the floor facing the door, occupying myself with drifting intermittently in and out of consciousness. There is nothing for my eyes to focus on but the small point of light coming through the barred window. I lie with my cheek pressed against stone, staring at the weak flicker.

My stomach growls angrily, jerking me back to the present. I shift, groaning as the blood rushes back into my hip, awareness returning to my body. I settle back into an equally uncomfortable position, pushing away my discomfort and returning to the festering darkness within.

This is it. This is where it is all going to end. How stupid was I to think that I could go up against the King, to think that I could succeed where my father had failed? Who am I to have such an ego? What right did I have to believe that the City could ever be anything but a cruel, hierarchical system? Everyone warned me that the risk was too great, but I didn't listen. My only accomplishment is making a complete and utter fool of myself and, in the process, risking the life of a true friend.

Meg is out there, somewhere, alone and scared. She put her faith in me and I lied to her. I am a senseless fraud, the same as Lara or Will.

Will.

My eyes screw closed tightly. I don't know why I should even care about shedding a tear, here about as far from the rest of the world as anyone could be. I suppose old habits die hard.

He was everything. I was so blinded by my belief in his rebellion—in him—that I shouldn't be surprised to discover where my recklessness has led. Against my better judgment, I trusted a courtier, allowed myself to be persuaded by a pair of pretty grey eyes. I let down my guard and gave myself over to him completely, opening myself up in ways that I had never dared with anyone else.

The guards who stormed our home five years ago were once faceless drones, soulless incantations of the King's will. Now, when I shut my eyes all I can see is Will's handsome face, anguished but unflinching.

Over and over I berate myself for my stupidity and short-sightedness while the hours or days pass overhead. I approach Will's betrayal from every possible angle, the hurt turning unbearable each time I recall the feeling of his arms wrapped around me or his heartbeat pressing into my back as we slept. The pain sustains me and helps to keep me from grasping onto that one nagging impossibility.

Maybe he's coming for me.

He isn't. It's been made crystal clear to me that his focus will always remain on his rebellion. Locked away in this dank corner of the eternal Burn, I'm of no further use, and so he'll have resolved himself to press forward. I find some comfort in knowing that he's keeping Meg safe and vow to do the same, though I am sure that my small efforts will make no difference in the grand scheme. After all, even if by some crazy miracle we managed to start an uprising, somewhere down the line the need for power would corrupt and the ugliness of humanity would overrule. The world is made up of people stepping over the weak as they claw for greater riches.

I'm no better than any of them. I pretended to be someone I wasn't, manipulating one of the only people to offer me a genuine friendship. Meg was willing to abandon everything she had ever known to follow me into a madcap rebellion, casting aside a world of riches and privilege for the life of a traitor. As far as I can tell, the Princess is the only person in this whole, sordid mess who showed real courage.

The torch outside my door continues to spew a weak light. I watch the dappled patterns as I turn these thoughts over and over in my mind, unable to distract myself with anything except my own misery. I think about shouting for some food and water but dismiss it; there are worse fates than starving to death. I sit back against the wall and re-tie the grimy bandage on my knee, securing it as tightly as I can with shaking fingers.

I loll my head against the impassive stone behind me, allowing my eyes to drift closed, waiting for the next wave of unconsciousness to overtake me.

The tread of heavy footsteps outside the door jerks me to attention. I crack one eye open and adopt a look of measured disdain while my muscles contract in panic. As horrible as this dank cell is, I am not such a fool to think that anything better is awaiting me outside.

A key turns in the lock and the heavy door swings open, creaking on its hinges. A guard's broad shoulders fill the doorway before he takes a step toward me, reaches out and grips my arm to yank me to my feet. A second guard remains in the hallway, watching warily.

"Wait—" I protest, wincing as I am dragged through the hallway and deeper into the gloom. I try to dig my heels into the floor when I realize where we are heading, jerking my arm violently in the guard's grip.

The second man wordlessly grabs my other arm and helps to pull me toward the chambers, cuffing me in the back of the head when I spout obscenities and try to kick him.

A combination of dizziness and fear almost causes me to pass out and I stop thrashing, my feet dragging inelegantly on the rough stone floor as we draw closer and closer to the darkest corner of the gaol. To my dread, we enter the room that I explored only a few weeks previous.

"Listen, you're making a mistake," I say, fighting to catch the eye of one of the guards.

He avoids my eyeline, forcing my wrist above my head and into one of the manacles at the top of the pole in the centre of the room. The iron is cold and bites into my skin.

"You don't have to do this." I swallow in an effort to keep the terror from my voice. "The King is just using you to do his dirty work, but you can make your own choice—you can see there is a better way."

My pleas fall on deaf ears as my other arm is raised and shackled into place. I clench my hands into fists and breathe deep, shuddering breaths, looking over my shoulder at the guards moving to stand on either side of the doorway. They remain still and stone faced, waiting.

"Shit." I pull at the manacles binding my wrists, grimacing when the flesh tears anew.

"This is wrong," I say, trying in vain to get one of the men to look at me, to acknowledge me. "Don't you see it's only blind chance that you were born to the Court? In another life, you could have been a commoner, and then it might have been one of you up here instead of me."

The younger man glances at his companion uneasily.

I feel a small spark of hope and keep pushing. "I'm no different from you; this is going to hurt me as much as it would hurt you or anyone you love. Blind obedience is the only thing keeping the King on the throne; it's the only thing allowing him to condemn people this way, but you can change all that." I cough, my throat completely dried up. "Help me."

"There is an awful lot of conversation in here." A shadow materializes in the door frame and I freeze, my eyes wide as they struggle to adjust to the darkness.

His silhouette looms larger as he makes his way into the room. I watch as he moves to the wall and strikes a match, lighting the torch below the macabre display.

The light flares up, coating the dark brick and illuminating the whips. A bout of nausea turns my empty stomach and I nearly gag, swallowing hard and forcing my eyes to the Inquisitor, trying unsuccessfully to avoid looking at the wall behind him.

He looks the same as he did five years ago. Older, with harder eyes and thinner hair, but the same murderous intent written clearly across his plain features.

"I have heard a great deal about you," Harmen says conversationally. He moves around the pole so he is standing in front of me; he crosses his arms and tucks them into the folds of his jacket. He tilts his head, adjusting his spectacles with one hand as he regards me. "You are not what I expected."

My skin crawls under his scrutiny. "Sorry to disappoint you."

"Disappointed? Dear me, no. I am impressed, actually. I assumed that the infamous Runner would be someone older, with more experience. You must be very clever to have forged such a reputation at so young an age. And a woman, no less!" His smile widens, stretching unnaturally tight across his face. "I flatter myself in thinking that I had a hand in your success."

I flinch, my breath coming in short gasps.

"You didn't think I remembered you, did you? How could I forget." Harmen circles me, his movements reminding me of a buzzard. "That hair, that defiance. Not much has changed since we last crossed paths."

"You killed my family," I say, my voice low.

"Your family was naught but a bunch of traitors," he retorts. "I'm not surprised to see you've chosen the same path."

I stiffen and tug unconsciously again at the manacles. My every sense strains to be as far away from this man as possible.

"You would be surprised at the things I know about you, Kay." I flinch again at his use of my name. "Down here, there are no secrets between us. You will find that I can be a great friend to you."

Harmen reaches one hand up and I draw back, but he is only reaching to remove his spectacles, plucking them daintily off his nose and rubbing them with a lace handkerchief.

"You're unusually quiet." He looks up. "Could you be a bit nervous? What about all that chatter from a moment ago, that blasphemous talk about your King?"

"He isn't my King," I mutter.

"Well, we'll just see about that, won't we?" He finishes polishing his glasses and deposits them in the pocket of his jacket. "Oh, but I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's not start off on the wrong foot; it seems unfair that I know so much about you and you don't know me, doesn't it?"

He seems to be waiting for a response, his cruel smile unwavering. I stare at him stonily, refusing to play his games.

He doesn't seem the least bit bothered by my silence. "My circumstances have changed since we were last acquainted. I am now employed by our King for the most noble task of extracting information from traitors. It is a profession I am proud to have excelled at."

"Is that all?" I ask.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Not to be rude, but you sound terribly boring. Haven't you any hobbies? Friends? Perhaps you have a woman kept in your bed, wallowing in self-loathing?" I force myself to keep my eyes locked with his, glaring at him in challenge.

Something dangerous flickers across his face. "I can see we are going to be very good friends, you and I."

Harmen moves back toward the whips and takes off his jacket, folding it carefully and placing it on the table.

"I like to begin my session with a new client by asking them a question simply and reasonably. I find that a lot of trouble can be avoided by a polite conversation. You are clearly a smart girl, so look around." He gestures to the display on the wall. "Resisting my techniques will only keep you here for longer. You may be interested to know that I have ways of keeping you alive for however much time it takes to retrieve the information I require. That said, I don't have to hurt you if you tell me what I want to know, right now."

He makes a show of rolling up his sleeves, revealing forearms surprisingly muscled for someone of such average stature.

"So this is your chance, Kay." He pauses a beat, watching me. "Where is the Princess Megra?"

I swallow in an attempt to soothe my parched throat. Harmen leans casually against the table, framed perfectly by the mosaic of torture behind him.

I tear my gaze down from the wall and force it back to him, adjusting my hands in the manacles. "I don't know."

He nods, slowly. "Very well, then." Turning, he regards the whips, his fingers dancing across the options as he carefully makes his selection. I adjust my stance, planting my feet as best I can. I want to turn away, knowing that I don't need to see which one he chooses, but I am incapable of looking anywhere else.

Finally, his hand comes to rest on a relatively tame wooden switch. My back burns as sweat drips down my spine, coating the underside of my shirt. Harmen nods to the guards and one of them moves toward me, efficiently rolling up the back of my tunic.

I take a deep breath, rotating my wrists so that my hands grip the chains of the manacles. I stare hard at the pole in front of me, concentrating on a specific knot in the wood.

There is the sound of shuffling feet over my shoulder but Harmen takes his precious time in readying himself. In the meantime, I am coiled as tight as a spring, feeling as though I could pass out from the stress of anticipation.

All at once, there is a lick of pain shooting up my back unlike anything I have ever felt. A split second later, the sound of the whip slices through the air, deafening my senses. There is an almighty crack and my knees buckle, fire dancing across my spine and pouring into every thought, every breath, every last nerve ending my battered body has left.

I gasp and pull myself upright, heaving on the chains. I have barely managed to gather my bearings when the next strike comes, retracing the same path as the first. I bite down a scream as the fire burns anew, the fresh pain joining the still-smouldering coals of the first hit, effectively obliterating every scrap of light.

Two more strikes arrive in quick succession and I remain standing only by the unforgiving hold of the manacles. From the recesses of my mind I realize that Harmen has spoken and I fight to focus, pain and shock rendering any clear thought impossible.

"That was just a taste. Now I will ask you again, as nicely as I can: Where is the Princess?"

Something warm and sticky trickles down my back. Every shaky breath I draw tugs and tears at the gaping cuts.

My chin is cupped by heinously gentle fingers as Harmen forces my eyes into his. "Where is she?" he asks, so softly that he may have said nothing at all.

I stare into muddy brown eyes, for one crystalline moment wanting nothing more than to tell him what he wants to know and return to the beautiful abandonment of my cell.

"I don't know," a voice that is not my own replies wearily, and I brace myself for another round.